Tool
by pgrabia
Summary: House calls Wilson in the middle of the night for comfort and help with his love life. Two-shot. H/W preslash/slash. Written for H/W Porn/kink fest at greglovesjimmy at LJ. Spoilers up to S.6, ep. 22. Rated M for explicit sexual content and language.
1. Chapter 1

**Tool**

**By pgrabia**

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Written for the House/Wilson Porn Fest for the GreglovesJimmy community at . Also posted at House_Wilson and at . This is a two-part story. It is H/W slash.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me".

**Rating: NC-17 (or M)** for explicit sex and bad language.

**Genre:** Fanfiction: AU, slash, Post-"Help Me". G. House and J. Wilson with mention of House x Cuddy and Wilson x Sam Carr.

**Part One:**

Wilson heard his cell phone ringing and groaned. He hadn't been sleeping, hadn't been able to sleep, but he didn't want to answer it. It was probably the hospital with bad news concerning one of his Terminals and after the evening he'd had the night before he really wasn't in the frame of mind to face it. He reached for the offending device on his bedside table when he felt a body lean across his and grab the phone before he could. He opened an eye slightly so that he could watch her without her being aware that he was. Curling up and drawing the blanket up under his chin again, he pretended to go back to sleep.

Sam looked at the caller I.D. and frowned, exhaling sharply, answering. "He's sleeping House." She whispered.

_House?_ Wilson's mind echoed, feeling his heart begin to beat rapidly. It had been nearly a month since he'd last spoken with his friend of twenty years. Ever since the crane disaster in Trenton the older man had seemed preoccupied, strangely busy and rarely home when the oncologist had tried to call him and set up a buddy night with him. He didn't show up at the cafeteria at lunch anymore to steal his fries and mock his team and every other person in the hospital. He left exactly at five everyday lately, never earlier, never later, even when he had a case. The odd time Wilson had been able to catch him in passing or by fluke in his office, the conversation had been very brief, cold, and impersonal, more like they were only professional associates than best friends. House hadn't called him in weeks, at all. It was so unlike him; Wilson admitted to feeling hurt by it, but hadn't confronted the diagnostician about it due to, for the most part, feelings of guilt.

He'd been the one to push House away by first paying his team to take him out so that he was nowhere around to interfere with his relationship with Sam and then by asking him to move out because Sam was moving in. Perhaps this was House's way of telling the oncologist that they weren't okay, that he couldn't forgive being rejected in favor of Sam.

"No, I won't wake him—what?" There was a pause as House was speaking and she was listening and rolling her eyes in disdain. "You're drunk, aren't you?" he heard her say at last. Wilson had the urge to pry the phone from her hands upon hearing the word 'drunk' but for some reason refrained from doing so—yet. He wanted to listen a little while longer and see what his lover would do next.

Sam listened and then smiled coldly and chuckled. "Go ahead and take them—then James will see exactly how big a loser you really are—"

Wilson sat upright so suddenly it made Sam gasp in surprise. He snatched the phone out of her hands and spoke quickly before House could hang up and do something stupid and self-destructive.

"House!" he said into the phone. "Talk to me!" Wilson cast a look so filled with wrath that Sam actually crawled out of bed to put distance between them…but not far enough away that she couldn't listen in on the phone call.

"Jimmy," the hoarse, broken voice of his friend on the other end of the phone slurred, "I'm a tool. I'm sorry. I thought I could do it, I thought I could be the man she wanted, to make her proud of me, but I couldn't. I'm just not good enough."

Wilson's full, dark eyebrows met as he frowned in confusion. "Her? Who's her, House? I don't understand."

"She dumped Lucas," House continued drunkenly, almost like he hadn't heard the question, "and then came to me and told me she did it 'cause she loved me. I was stupid to think I'd ever be good enough for her."

Wilson sat in bed, too surprised to say anything for a second or two. When the shock dissipated it was replaced with cold, dark anger for the woman who'd just managed to break his friend's heart twice in a year.

"You and Lisa Cuddy, House?" the younger man asked, just to make certain he had pieced things together correctly. "You two are together?"

"In every sense of the word," House admitted. "We've been doing the nasty since the disaster in Trenton. I thought she meant it when she told me she loved me. I was wrong. I don't know why I've bothered to stay clean. I have no one left to stay clean for."

Wilson was astounded; House and Cuddy had been together for just over three months and he hadn't heard so much as a whisper about it anywhere. Something like that would have spread through the hospital staff like wildfire had anyone else known about it. They had been able to hide their affair from everyone, including him. He didn't know whether or not to be angry about that, but he did know how he _was_ feeling right there and then. Never before had the oncologist heard the older man sound so depressed and defeated; it struck ice-cold fear into his heart.

"House," Wilson said, trying to sound calm, "where are you?"

"My apartment," was the reply. "Alone, again."

"Do you have Vicodin?" was the next question.

"Oxy, two bottles of thirty," he replied. "The guy I got 'em from didn't have Vicodin."

Wilson licked his lips nervously as his mind spun with the possibilities of the kind of damage House could do to himself with that much painkiller at his disposal. It wasn't like House had found an old stash or something; he'd gone out of his way to buy them from a dealer with the intent to take at least one or two of them—or perhaps all.

"Have you taken any?" the oncologist asked as he climbed out of bed, walked past Sam as if she wasn't standing there, and went to his chest of drawers, pulling out items of clothing and putting them on quickly. "Tell me the truth—I won't be angry."

"Not yet," came the too quiet answer, "but I want to, Wilson. I should have taken the Vicodin that night but Cuddy showed up and told me she loved me, so I didn't. But I should have. I should take these now."

"No!" Wilson told him, swallowing hard to force back panic. "Look, you called me. You did the right thing…don't screw it up now by taking the Oxycontin. I'm getting dressed as we speak and I'll be over there right away. Don't take the pills, okay? Put them away where you can't see them and wait for me. House, do you hear me?"

"Yeah," came the barely intelligible response.

"Don't take anything," the oncologist said as he moved to the front door where he picked up his keys and donned his jacket. "I don't want you to pass out, throw up and aspirate on it. Promise me."

"I promise Jimmy," House told him despondently. "For you."

That gave Wilson pause for a moment. For him. House wouldn't do it for himself but for the oncologist. He was both worried and touched at the same time. He wanted his friend to do it for himself as well. Wilson was about to tell him not to hang up when the diagnostician did just that. He tried to call the diagnostician back but the other man didn't answer.

"Fuck," Wilson whispered to himself. He opened the door to leave when Sam's voice stopped him. She'd followed him from the bedroom and put a restraining hand on his forearm.

"Wait, I'll come with you—just let me get dre-."

"No!" Wilson told her coldly, glaring at her. No longer did he see the beautiful, delightful woman with whom he had been falling back in love. Instead he saw a selfish, conniving, manipulative woman-child standing there. "My god, Sam! You told my best friend, a recovering addict, to go ahead and take the Oxycontin! He could have taken the whole bottle right then and there! You're self-centered and cruel—just as you used to be and I've been stupid enough to think that you changed! Pack your stuff and leave. I don't want to see you here when I get back!"

On his way out, just before he slammed the door shut behind him he heard her calling out in her defense, "But I was just trying to protect you from being used and hurt by him again! I was trying to protect us. You're not going to fall for his lies again are you? It's the middle of the night! Where am I supposed to go-?"

The door slammed loudly, cutting her off. Wilson didn't care if it did disturb his neighbors; he only cared about getting to House before the older man hurt himself.

As he drove Wilson tried to make some sense out of what House had told him over the phone. As far as he could figure, at some point right after they had returned from the horror and carnage of the crane disaster Cuddy had dumped Lucas, the man she had just agreed to marry after being involved with for a little less than a year, and told House that she loved him. They began to date, were intimate, but at some point recently House had come to the conclusion, whether it was accurate or not, that Cuddy was ashamed of her relationship with him, wanting to keep him her 'dirty little secret' and that she had lied when she told him that she loved him. House, drunk and self-destructive, had called the oncologist for help, sounding more desperate than Wilson had ever heard him.

If only he'd called Wilson the night of the disaster, maybe he could have spared the older man the pain he was in now. _Damn_ Cuddy! It wasn't enough to lead House on only to hurt him by springing her relationship with Lucas on him, oh no! She had to push House away and treat him like crap all year and then when the man was tired and hurting and vulnerable she had to flaunt those breasts and that ass in his face, dump Lucas the night after she accepted his proposal of marriage and string along the diagnostician only to end up hurting him again. Did she really not understand how her fickleness and manipulation destroyed his best friend? Was she that blind to everybody else's needs but her own? Or was this some kind of sick little game she was playing with House…her way of getting back at him for the years of aggravation and rebellion she had suffered through as his boss? Wilson would take care of House now, but he would be certain to take care of her in an entirely different sense later.

You haven't done much better by House, Wilson's conscience reminded him. Pangs of guilt hurt his chest. It was true. He had been thoughtless and uncaring to his best friend over the past five months or so. The oncologist had fallen into the same selfish behavior patterns he always did when a woman entered his life. He hadn't seen his own tendencies until after Amber's death, during that period of mourning and self-imposed exile from his friends and associates but most notably House. He'd been too proud to acknowledge to House that he had finally had that epiphany about himself. He thought he'd learned his lesson until Sam came into the picture and he forgot everything about his behavior again, falling into the same trap—and if Sam hadn't been gradually showing her true colors over the months culminating in tonight's cruel and selfish treatment of House, Wilson knew he'd still be in denial.

He was guilty, but he knew it and he was about to make amends for his stupidity. Wilson wondered if Cuddy, whatever it was she had done to send House reeling this time, would have the character to feel remorse and try to make amends as well. Wilson didn't really want her to try. House was better off without her, with his association with her being as impersonal and infrequent as possible.

Wilson parked his car outside of House's apartment building at 221 Baker Street, as he had countless times in the past. He got out of the Volvo and ran up the short walkway and stairs that led to the building's entrance. Making short work of the stairs to the second floor Wilson directed himself to apartment B and rapped loudly on the wooden door with his knuckles. There was no response from within so he continued to knock until he heard the drunken call of the apartment's occupant saying something about a key. The oncologist got the hint and pulled out his key that House had given him years ago; he unlocked the door and opened it, stepping inside. It seemed like the only light on in the apartment came from down the corridor that led to the bathroom at the end and the single bedroom right next to it. Wilson took off his jacket and threw it over the back of House's well-used leather sofa.

"House?" the oncologist called out as he strode towards the lit up bedroom. "It's Wilson! Are you okay?"

In the bedroom he found the older doctor sitting on the floor clad only in royal blue boxer shorts and trouser socks, his legs splayed out in from of him and his back against the bed. His head hung so that his chin nearly touched his chest. Between his legs were a nearly empty bottle of bourbon and two amber pill bottles, one of which was missing a cap. At first Wilson mistook the diagnostician for being passed out, but when he hurried to his side, kneeling next to him and lifting his chin House's heavy blue eyes opened and moved to look at the oncologist blearily. He blinked several times, trying to get his eyes to focus but Wilson knew he'd drunk way too much for that to happen tonight—or, rather, this morning, since it was nearly one o'clock.

"Jimmy?" House slurred questioningly. Was he so wasted that he couldn't be certain who his friend was? "Is that you?"

Wilson sighed, frowning in concern and wondering just exactly how much he'd actually drank; he worried about alcohol poisoning among other things. One thing was certain: Wilson knew he wasn't going to get a straight answer to anything until the older man slept off the booze.

"Yeah," Wilson told him softly, his hand brushing across House's forehead and cheeks as he felt for his temperature; the diagnostician's skin was cold and clammy, not a good sign at all. "It's me, House. Can you tell me how much you've had to drink tonight?"

The older man stared at him blankly and said nothing, as if the speaking centers of his brain had suddenly shut down.

"Do you understand me?" Wilson asked him, keeping a professional detachment to his voice. "House, did you take any of the Oxy? Come on, I need you to talk to me. Did you?"

Again the drunken man said nothing. His skin was very pallid. Wilson lifted his limp arm and felt his wrist for a pulse. It was slow and thready. He watched the rise and fall of House's chest, not pleased with how slowly he was breathing. His suspicions of alcohol toxicity were not relieved. He wasn't ready to call for an ambulance yet, but he was definitely going to observe his friend closely for any further depression of his respiratory and cardiac rates.

Sighing, Wilson wrapped his arms around the diagnostician and carefully lifted him to his feet, being cautious not to strain his own back in the process. Wrapping one of House's arms around his shoulders he basically dragged the older men around the end of the bed to the side of it where he set him down onto the mattress and laid him down. Carefully Wilson removed House's socks and then rolled the floppy man onto his stomach with his face turned to the side nearest the edge of the bed in case he vomited. Wilson didn't want him to aspirate on it. He pulled the comforter up over him to just below his shoulders. With that done, the oncologist went and picked up the pill bottles; he dumped the contents of the lidless one and began to count the pills to check to see if there were any missing from the total thirty listed on the label. All thirty could be accounted for, which was a relief. He then ascertained that none had been consumed from the second bottle before taking them to the bathroom and dumping the Oxycontin into the toilet and flushing it away. He returned to the bedroom and checked on his friend again. His condition hadn't worsened, but that didn't mean that it still couldn't. There was no way the oncologist was going to leave House alone.

Wilson didn't even want to leave the room but he was thoroughly exhausted and would have crashed on the lumpy leather sofa in the living room had he felt more assured that the older man was going to be alright. He looked at the other half of House's queen-sized bed that was unoccupied. It wasn't like he and House hadn't slept in the same bed before, but usually it was because they both had been dead drunk and one carried the other to bed then passed out as well.

With a sigh, the oncologist shrugged and began to remove his shoes, socks and pants, leaving himself clad in his t-shirt and white 'tighty-whities', as House had mocked his choice of underwear in the past. Wilson turned off the overhead light and turned on the small bedside lamp to provide some light to work by should House get sick and need his help. Wilson set the older man's alarm clock to go off in one hour, just in case he dozed off, so he could be sure to reevaluate the diagnostician's status; he then moved to the other side of the bed and crawled in beneath the blankets.

He lay there next to his best friend in silence, just staring at House's back as it lifted and arched slightly with every inhalation and then lowered again with each exhalation. His breathing was still quite slow, but wasn't yet in the danger zone so the oncologist forced himself to relax a bit. In the quiet he thought more about the ending of his relationship with Sam. It appeared to have ended so rapidly, on the spur of the moment, but Wilson knew that appearances were deceiving. He'd sensed his own resentment building deep inside of him shortly after House had been forced out of the loft. It had been borne of Wilson's thinly veiled guilty feelings and was 'hidden' by his incredible ability to live in denial of what the reality of a situation really was. He'd begun to be conscious of his resentment the day he found out Sam had failed to tell him that House had called him to tell him that he had two tickets to a monster truck rally taking place in Camden. The only way he'd found out about this deception was when he had heard Chase talking to Foreman, Taub and Thirteen about it the morning after he'd gone with House to take it in. Wilson at first had felt hurt that House had invited along Chase rather than him, until he asked the Aussie about it and learned about House's unreturned call.

Wilson had gone home and asked Sam about it, which she promptly had denied ever having taken place; the oncologist knew that Chase had had no reason to lie to him about it, but Sam did. She was openly against Wilson having contact with House because she was certain that House would only try to interfere with her relationship with Wilson when they were together. Wilson had put up with her paranoia and had gone along with her wishes because he knew it was possible that she was right about that; he didn't appreciate being deceived by her, however. From that point on he'd began to question everything Sam told him when it came to House and had caught her twice more in lies, which he'd never let on to.

He'd resented her for deceiving him without guilt, for treating him like a child who didn't know how to take care of himself and choose his own friends. The straw that broke the camel's back had been her response to House's call for help that she'd intercepted earlier that evening. He simply couldn't be with someone as callous and cruel as she was. Instead of feeling upset about it, however, he actually felt relieved. The blow up he'd known was coming had finally come and gone, and he could finally relax and move on. He could work at fixing the damage that had been done between the older man and him.

Moans from House disturbed his musings and Wilson quickly checked on the older man. They had come from him in his sleep, but otherwise he was still doing alright. Wilson was becoming more convinced that the older man was going to avoid alcohol poisoning but in the morning he was going to be one sick, miserable puppy.

For the next four hours Wilson dosed between the alarms to wake up and check on House once an hour. By five-thirty A.M. Wilson set the alarm clock to wake him at seven-thirty so he would remember to call in to the hospital and let Cuddy's assistant know that neither he nor House would be in today. He then left a message for his own assistant. After making the calls, Wilson had gone back to bed and allowed himself to sleep until House began to stir around eleven-forty-five.

Wilson heard the short groans and panting beginning to come from the diagnostician. Those sounds didn't bode well, he knew. He jumped out of the bed and hurried to the bathroom. Finding a basin under the sink he grabbed it and hurried back to House's side just as the older man began to vomit over the side of his bed. Wilson managed to capture most of it in the enamel-coated basin. When he was fairly certain that House was done spewing for the time being he took the basin to the bathroom, emptied it into the toilet and then flushed it away. He rinsed out the basin. Grabbing a couple of face cloths from the linen closet in the hall, he wet them with hot water and wrung them out before returning to House's side with the basin and cloths. He used one cloth to clean up the small amount of vomit that had hit the hardwood floor and then used the other to gently but thoroughly wipe clean House's face . He returned to the bathroom to rinse out the cloths and hang them to dry before throwing them into the laundry hamper. He brought a Dixie cup with a mouthful of mouthwash in it. There was little else worse than the taste of vomit.

By the time he returned again, House had rolled himself over onto his back and had one of his arms draped across his eyes to block out the offending daylight coming in the window and assaulting his eyes. The oncologist moved to the bedroom window and drew the room darkening curtains closed, lowering the light level in the room for House's comfort.

"Wilson?" House said softly, his voice little more than a growl from the irritation the alcohol had caused in his throat. "What are you doing here and why are you in your underwear?" Slowly House sat up and Wilson handed him the mouthwash. House frowned but used it, spitting it out into the basin. Wilson set it aside.

He stared at the older man and sat himself down on the edge of the bed next to his best friend. He wasn't certain if House seriously didn't remember calling him last night but the opportunity offered him a chance at amusing himself and lightening the atmosphere regardless. He forced a frown and a look of hurt on his face, concentrating hard to keep his voice from betraying him.

"You—You mean you don't remember?" the younger man sputtered in faux-disbelief. "Jesus, House! Tell me you're joking!" He had to bite the inside of his cheek until it really hurt and bled a little to keep himself from laughing. The pain caused his eyes to water, an unplanned but serendipitous bonus. He reached out to brush his fingers across House's cheek ever so slightly. "You don't remember calling me over, telling me that you needed me? You don't remember what we shared?"

House's eyes widened in genuine surprise and he slapped Wilson's hand away from his face. He tried to scoot away from the oncologist. The expression on his face was so funny and yet so endearing—it took everything in him to keep Wilson from breaking out in laughter.

"You're shitting me," House growled, a mass of confused emotions. "Tell me you're shitting me!"

"I knew you were drunk, but I didn't know you were that drunk," Wilson replied, moving further onto the bed, heading towards House again. "It was wonderful waking up in bed with you…I thought we shared something special, but now you're telling me you don't remember a thing?" The oncologist had to turn his body away from House because he couldn't hold back the grin any longer; he knew it would look as if he turned away in pain and hurt, and his body jerking slightly with his silenced laughter would make it appear like he was crying. Tears from his laughter began to roll down his cheeks, which was absolutely perfect. The only disadvantage was that he couldn't see the expression on House's face to judge whether or not he was buying the rouse or not.

He could hear the rustling of blankets behind him and then out of the corner of his eye saw the diagnostician's feet and legs swing over the side of the bed as House moved to sit on the edge of the mattress, close to but not touching the younger man. Wilson quickly forced the grin off of his face and replaced it with a frown instead, hoping that it looked somewhat realistic. He knew this was cruel, but he also knew that if the tables had been turned, House would have done the same or worse shit to him.

House was rubbing his scruffy face with both of his hands, cursing softly under his breath.

"Fuck, Wilson!" House said when he looked over at the oncologist. "You're not—not crying are you?"

Wilson covered his tear-streaked face with his hands to keep House from seeing the smile that he could quite hide. "I thought it meant something to you," he mumbled into the flesh on his palms. "It meant something to me! Damnit, House, I even dumped Sam…!"

House sighed loudly, shaking his head incredulously.

"Oh god, Wilson," House said softly, swallowing hard, looking like he had no idea what the fuck to say, which was probably the case. He looked sick, like he was going to throw up, and the younger man didn't know if it due to the hang-over or because of this joke; he wondered if he shouldn't come clean and confess that it was all a joke when the diagnostician stunned him by placing one of his long-fingered hands on his back and gently rubbing circles there. It was Wilson's turn to inhale in surprise.

Looking at House with eyes the size of tea saucers, Wilson had no idea what to say, either.

"I'm…sorry," House told him, avoiding the younger man's gaze in shame. "I…I was pretty messed up last night. I was in a bad place and I drank way too much. You've got to believe me…never had I intended on…this…happening quite this way." Wilson didn't think his eyes could get any larger than they already were but he was wrong. _'Quite this way'_? Wilson's mind echoed questioningly. What the hell did that mean? Had House never intended their phony night of sex to happen at all, or had he intended it to happen at some point, only in a different way? What was the older man saying? This was supposed to be a joke at House's expense, but now things didn't seem as funny to Wilson any more.

He had to admit, though, that the sensation of House's gentle, comforting touch was not only unexpected behavior from him, but it felt pretty damned good. Very good, in fact. That was wrong, wasn't it?

"I didn't want it to happen when I was too drunk to remember it," the diagnostician continued, sounding quite sad, actually. "I never thought it _would_ happen, ever. I'd given up all hope, actually. I'd always fantasized about it being a night we'd both remember for the rest of our lives. Shit. SHIT! I'm sorry, Wilson, I'm…fuck, I'm such an asshole!"

_Oh my god, oh my god_! Wilson thought, panicking silently. House had to be kidding! That was it! Of course! House had caught on to Wilson's joke and was trying to turn it back around on him now. That had to be what this was. Right?

"House, I-." Wilson began; he was about to come clean on the joke and call the diagnostician on his part of it when something unexpected happened. The diagnostician placed his right hand behind Wilson's neck at the base of his skull, gently massaging with his fingers as he pulled the oncologist into a lingering, tender kiss. Too shocked to do much of anything, Wilson sat ram-rod straight, frozen in place. House's brilliant blue eyes were open and hooded as they gazed into Wilson's. In spite of the fact that Wilson suspected this was a joke, he couldn't see any duplicity in his best friends gaze.

Worse, Wilson found himself starting to respond to the kiss in ways a man had no right to respond to his male best friend unless he was gay….

He pulled away from House, glaring at the older man in astonishment. He realized that he we breathing faster than usual and his face was hot to the touch. There was the familiar of pooling of blood in his lower abdomen that he had to fight, to stop. It was ridiculous, this was ridiculous! Wasn't it? House had to be pulling his leg—yet, the slightly disappointed look in his searching, questioning eyes seemed genuine.

"You're more than just a drunken one night stand, Wilson," House told him sincerely, looking afraid for the first time. "I know you're pissed at me but you need to know that."

"House," Wilson blurted out, unable to listen to any more. "This, this is a joke, right?"

A frown pulled House's eyebrows together, and he looked…well, if Wilson didn't know the diagnostician as well as he did, he would say that he looked…_hurt_.

"Why would I fucking joke about this?" he demanded, sounding angry, his body tensing up.

"Because it _is_ a joke!" Wilson told him much more bluntly than he had planned. "I was joking! House…nothing happened between us last night! I _was_ shitting you!"

House's face suddenly hardened and the mask of indifference he normally wore to hide his true feelings replaced the open emotion that had been there just a second before. Wilson could see the conflict in his eyes, though—usually House could harden his eyes just as well as he could his face but not this time. This time they expressed his confusion, anger and was that—could it be—pain?"

The diagnostician said nothing, but looked quickly away from Wilson, the muscles in his face and neck working overtime to keep the façade up.

"You were shitting me," House echoed, his voice barely a whisper. His breathing was speeding up, becoming shallower. He flexed and unflexed his fists. His eyes darted around erratically. Wilson had never witnessed him this way before and it was beginning to frighten him.

"You called my place last night," the younger man began to explain, speaking rapidly to get everything he wanted to say in before…before his best friend self-destructed or exploded or perhaps simply hauled off and punched him in the mouth. "Sam picked up, thinking I was asleep, but I wasn't. I could tell from her end of the conversation that something was wrong. You asked to speak to me but she refused to 'wake' me. Then she told you to go ahead and take them, and I realized that you were in trouble, so I grabbed the phone from her. You were drunk—you sounded more desperate than I have ever heard you. You were telling me about how Cuddy had betrayed you and didn't really love you like she had told you she did the night of the crane disaster. You kept commenting on how you weren't good enough and then you told me you have Oxycontin and wanted to take it. I rushed over here but when I arrived I found you in a complete drunken stupor. I was worried that you may have drank enough to poison yourself

"So I took you to your room and put you in bed in the safety position and kept close watch over you all night to make certain you didn't fall into a coma or vomit and aspirate on it in your sleep. I did sleep in your bed—but only because I was exhausted and I didn't want to leave you alone in here unattended while I slept on the sofa. When I realized you didn't remember what had happened last night I thought—stupidly—that I would lighten the mood and pull a fast one on you—so I led you to believe that we had…well, you know. But _nothing_ happened…Fuck, House! It was just supposed to be a joke and then I thought you'd found me out and were turning it around on me!

"But you weren't, were you?" The last sentence was spoken in a whisper.

House rose quickly to his feet—a little too quickly, causing him to suffer a temporary bout of lightheadedness. He swayed a little on his feet but then settled himself and limped sans cane to the bathroom.

"House?" Wilson called to him, rising to his feet.

The older man stopped just inside the doorway of the bathroom and looked up at the younger briefly with angry, hurt eyes.

"No," was the succinct answer House gave him before locking himself inside the bathroom.

Wilson face-palmed himself, cursing himself for once again being completely clueless and insensitive. What the hell was he thinking, pulling a practical joke of that intensity on his best friend the morning after House had been prepared to throw a year of sobriety away and perhaps throw his very life away as well?

"Way to go, James, you fucking idiot!" he said softly to himself with self-hatred. Unexpected as it had been, House had just done the one thing that Wilson had been riding him to do throughout the years—express his feelings honestly—only to be completely humiliated for having done so. He wondered if the older man would ever forgive him or trust him again. The oncologist knew that if he hadn't already killed his friendship with House, he now had.

Never had Wilson suspected that House had more than platonic feelings for him. True, their friendship had always been unusually intense and House had always behaved possessively and jealously of him and his time. He had felt that way for House's time as well, but…but to want him sexually-or even more than just sexually? _You're more than just a drunken one-night stand, Wilson. _House's words.

Wilson had to admit that he should have felt creeped out by that knowledge—but on the contrary, he felt strangely comforted by it.

He didn't know if he could ever fix the damage that had just been done but Wilson had to try because when it all came down to it, the truth was he needed House more than he was certain House needed him. He loved House—yes, that's right, loved—and couldn't let this stupid stunt of his ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him in his life. Wilson just wished he knew what to say.

Wilson went to stand right outside the bathroom door. "House, please come out. We need to talk."

The only thing to meet his ears was silence. There wasn't so much as the sound of a shuffling foot from within the bathroom. What was he doing in there? Wilson's mind began to run through terrifying scenarios based on what he knew House kept in there. He began to feel a sense of urgency to get in there, to get to him.

"What are you doing in there, House?" he demanded, not even bothering to try to hide the fear in his voice. "Answer me, please! House I never meant to hurt you. I wish you would have told me about this sooner! I honestly didn't know how you felt about me—I never would have made fun of it had I known!"

The tap to the sink was turned on and all Wilson could hear was the running of water. Was he actually doing something in the sink, or was he trying to drown out the sound of something? Was he trying to drown out Wilson's voice, or something that the diagnostician was doing that he didn't want the younger man to hear?

"If you don't talk to me," Wilson told him, swallowing hard, trying to force down the dread that was rising up from his belly into his throat, "then I'll have to break the door down! It's probably going to cause me great injury and a hell of a lot of pain, but so be it! For all I know you could be in there slicing your wrists open with a razor blade!"

When the water kept running and there was no response from his best friend, Wilson sighed in resignation and backed up. He tried to block out of his mind just how much this was going to _hurt_. Taking a deep breath, Wilson turned his shoulder to the door, focused and then took a run at it. His shoulder hit the solid wood door squarely; the door didn't budge, but Wilson bounced off of it, flew backwards and ended up on his ass on the hard floor. Pain radiated throughout his body and the oncologist couldn't decide exactly where it hurt the most. Groaning, he forced himself back up to his feet and stared at the barrier between him and House angrily. There was no sign that he had even touched it. That was the problem with these old buildings—they were built to last.

Undaunted, he backed up again, a little further down the corridor this time so he could get a better run and more speed going. Taking another deep breath, he paused a moment and then ran at it again. Roaring angrily, as if that alone could increase the force of his attack on the door, he ran at top speed and slammed into the door again. This time a little more of the energy exerted upon it was absorbed by the door and the frame around it and less rebounded back into Wilson—but enough did to send him to the floor again, this time groaning in pain. There had been a solid crack as the hinges strained against the jamb, cracking it. He panted tiredly, not certain he had it in him for another try, but he knew he had to find the strength. He couldn't risk giving up on the older man now. He shuffled back to his feet and limped on his very sore hip to the spot in the corridor from which he would take a third and probably last try. If the door didn't give this time his body would.

"House!" Wilson called to him, hoping he would respond and open the door voluntarily. "You're acting like a love-sick menstruating teenage girl!" He hoped taunting him might have an effect. God knew sweet talking hadn't. "Open the fucking door!"

Again, House refused to acknowledge him. With a heavy sigh and a curse word or two, he launched for the door again, hitting it with all of his might. He heard what sounded like a bolt of lightning hitting a dead tree, splitting it in half, and the door gave way. Wilson continued to hurtle forward and nearly crashed into the sink. Instead, he was caught by the diagnostician before any further damage to his person could be done.

What damage had been done was enough; it was so intense that the oncologist literally couldn't see straight, and moaned pathetically into the feathery hairs of House's chest for the few moments it took for the strongest wave of pain to pass. He knew immediately that he had dislocated his shoulder, and suspected he may have done other serious damage as well. When he became aware of his environment he realized that his face was against House's bare chest and the diagnostician had his arms wrapped protectively around him, holding him up.

"You idiot!" House grumbled almost affectionately. "What are you trying to do, kill yourself?"

Wilson rested against his friend perhaps a moment too long. After having been so distant from House psychologically, if not spatially, for so many months, being intimately close to him made Wilson feel so good. He inhaled his friend's scent; stale bourbon, soap, yesterday's application of deodorant, sweat and that certain something that was uniquely House, the something he had always secretly enjoyed whenever around him. The oncologist began to feel the warm tingling building in his abdomen again, but this time he didn't freak out because of it. He just let it happen, perhaps because he was too wounded to bother avoiding it, perhaps because he wanted to feel it.

"No," Wilson muttered, gasping suddenly as he tried to straighten up and gain his own footing again. That movement had sent bolts of burning lightning through every nerve ending in his upper body. House still kept hold of him until the worst of the agony passed again. Wilson looked to House's face and noticed the redness and swelling around the older man's eyes, the red nose and rashy-red on his upper lip.

House had turned on the tap and refused to speak because he'd been crying and hadn't wanted Wilson to know. The only other time in nearly twenty years of friendship the oncologist had ever known the older man to cry had been after the infarction, right after Stacy had left him and then only when House thought he was all alone. Wilson had never let on that he'd witnessed it and probably never would. Nor would he ever mention this time again.

Big blue eyes stared down at him and for a moment, House had opened up to him again, leaving his soul exposed-something that before this day he'd never done with his best friend. Wilson felt both privileged and awed by it.

"I needed to know that you were okay," Wilson explained softly, finding it impossible to look away from House's gaze.

House nodded slowly, murmuring, "Oh." They were both still for a moment and then House broke the eye connection, frowning. "You did a damned good job of injuring yourself while doing it! Come on, I'll put your shoulder back into place and look you over for other injuries.

"I think you just want to look me over," Wilson quipped with a weak, disarming smile. House smirked, amused.

"I think that's already been established," he answered quietly and then helped Wilson to the kitchen.

(End of Part One)


	2. Chapter 2

**Tool **By pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**A/N:** Written for the House/Wilson Porn Fest for the greglovesjimmy community at . Also posted at House_Wilson and at . This is Part Two of a two-part story. It is H/W slash.

**Spoiler Alert:** This story includes spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 6 Ep. 22 "Help Me".

**Rating: NC-17 (or M)** for explicit sex and bad language.

**Genre:** Fanfiction: AU, slash, Post-"Help Me". G. House and J. Wilson with mention of House x Cuddy and Wilson x Sam Carr.

**Part Two:**

With clinical dispatch House snapped the oncologist's shoulder back into place, eliciting a cry from the younger man until everything had settled back to where it belonged, at which time the pain from the dislocation decreased almost completely. There was still the ache from the deep tissue bruising to contend with as well as the kink in his back that would be taken care of by his chiropractor as soon as he could book an appointment. After a quick once over the diagnostician was satisfied that there wasn't anything else to be concerned about.

"I take it you dumped out the Oxy after I passed out last night?" House asked rhetorically, knowing damned well that he had. "Too bad—one of those would take the edge off the pain a lot better than ibuprofen."

"I'll be fine," Wilson assured him. "House, before you go and try to lock yourself in another room somewhere, we need to sit down and talk—and not just about what happened this morning. You need to tell me about what the hell has been going on between you and Cuddy over the past three months or so and fill me in on what happened to bring you to the point of desperation that you were in last night."

"No need," House told him, trying to sound cavalier but not quite succeeding. "I'm all better. It's amazing what a night of drinking and a hangover can do for a person. So you can toddle off home to Sam now and we'll pretend that this day never happened." The older man went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. He removed the cap and chucked it into the garbage can before limping, cane-less, to the sofa in the living room where he sat himself down and put his feet up onto the coffee table. He picked up the remote control and turned on his television. Wilson knew he was being dismissed, but he hadn't gone through everything he had over the past few hours just to be sent on his way empty handed. Besides, he'd missed his best friend and didn't want to end this time together so soon.

"I was telling the truth when I said that I'd dumped Sam," Wilson told him. "It's over." He waited for the diagnostician to begin crowing "I told you so" but it never came.

House didn't look at him but he sounded a little surprised when he asked, "Why did you do that?"

He hobbled a little stiffly into the living room and sat at the other end of the sofa.

"When she told my best friend who is a recovering addict to take the Oxycontin pills he had in his hand, I decided she wasn't someone I wanted to be involved with."

House glanced over at him, frowning suspiciously. "You don't look too broken up about it."

The oncologist sighed and shrugged. "I'm not, really. Actually, this has only been one of several things she's done that have concerned me. You know that Monster truck rally you took Chase to?"

Rolling his eyes, House grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen on the table, dumped three into his hand then into his mouth and took a long swallow of his electrolytic drink and shrugged. "You make it sound like a date. I had an extra ticket and since you were too busy banging the Harpy to even return my phone call, I gave it to Chase instead."

Wilson nodded, feeling the burn of anger in his gut again. "I wasn't busy 'banging Sam'. I never got the message that you'd called about it. Sam decided I didn't need to spend time with you and didn't bother telling me that you had called. I found out that she had deceived me only after I talked to Chase about the show and he told me that when I hadn't returned your call you took him instead. When I asked her about it, she outright lied to me and told me that you hadn't called."

The diagnostician released a low-pitched whistle but said nothing more.

They sat in silence for a minute or two as House channel surfed. Wilson couldn't help but notice that both he and House were still in their underwear. They had never been around each other that way for this long before, not even when they had been roommates. He found himself staring at his friend's body, amazed at how toned his muscles were despite the fact that he spent most of his time when not at work as a couch potato. House had to have a high metabolism, he decided, and consciously looked away from his chest to look at his face instead.

"You still haven't told me what's going on, House," Wilson told him adamantly.

Ignoring him, House settled on ESPN. "Shh, World Cup!" he told the oncologist, placing a finger to his lips.

Wilson wasn't about to be put off. "You don't even like soccer," he retorted, reaching across and snatching the remote from House's hand when he had his guard down.

"Give me the remote," the older man demanded, not amused. He held out a pianist's hand, waiting for the oncologist to hand it back to him.

In defiant response Wilson turned off the TV and then held it away from its owner.

"We're going to talk," Wilson told him simply. House's frown only deepened, as did his voice.

"Wilson, give me the damned remote."

"Uh-uh," was his response, shaking his head. He knew that he was playing with fire and was prepared to get burned if necessary. They never talked about anything of real significance in their relationship, and that had to change.

Wilson jumped in his seat when House bellowed, "Give me the fucking remote!" He lunged at Wilson but the younger man dodged him, moving over to the arm chair a few feet further away. To make certain House knew that he meant business he stuck the remote down the front of his briefs.

"You might want to rethink that strategy," House growled with an angry smirk. "We've established that I have no problem with sticking my hand down your pants to retrieve that remote."

Feeling himself begin to blush, Wilson nonetheless held his ground, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"If that's what it takes to get you to talk with me, then I'll risk it," he replied. Wilson felt his stomach flip a little at the mental picture of House jumping him and reaching into his underwear to grab the remote—and missing….

_Damn!_ The oncologist thought to himself as his cock began to respond to the thought. _What the hell is wrong with me? This has never happened to me before…well, that's not entirely true…._ Wilson rolled his eyes at himself. That wasn't true at all. He'd felt stirrings plenty of times in the past, but had never allowed himself to entertain the thoughts any farther than that. So why was he doing so now? Was it because he now knew that House had entertained sexual thoughts about him as well, so there was no threat of judgment?

House met his brown-eyed glare for a few moments in silence before rising to his feet and moving towards the armchair and its occupant. Wilson realized what House was planning on doing and he felt himself harden at the mere thought of being touched there. He had to admit to himself that his arousal was due to the fact that it was House who was about to do it.

_Face it, James_, he told himself, _a_ _big part of you wants him to touch you._

The older man stopped about halfway there and then smiled wolfishly at the younger. Wilson followed the line of House's sight to his hardening member stretching at the confines of his cotton briefs, threatening to poke its head out the buttoned window in the front. It was too late to hide it or deny it, so Wilson didn't bother doing either. His mouth suddenly felt cotton dry and the more his best friend stared at his cock the harder his erection became. Suddenly having to share the space with the remote control was becoming very uncomfortable for it. A fine sweat began to bead Wilson's brow and upper lip, mimicking what was going on with House. Wilson could help but be drawn to look at House's fully erect penis that was tenting his boxers.

_What am I doing?_ Wilson asked himself, his mind spinning. _Okay, I've thought about this before, and I do love House, but just as a friend…Right?…So why do I want him so badly right now? Can I do this? Can I actually cross the line and have sex with my male best friend? What will happen to our friendship then—will it destroy it, or make it so much better? House wants me, so I know he won't freak out and run away, at least not right away. _There was no doubt about it anymore, and it was plain that he was wanted back. But he couldn't just relegate this off as just a meaningless sexual experiment, not with House. It had to be much more than that with him. _Oh fuck I want him! He knows…he knows! Why not just give in to it?_

House closed the gap between them and then, with a wince, knelt a little awkwardly with his bad leg in front of the younger man. Wilson couldn't move, knew he didn't want to. He was becoming incredibly aroused, both mystified with his reaction and feeling somewhat liberated by it at the same time. Of course it had crossed his mind from time to time the curiosity of what it would be like to be physical with House. He'd had a couple of very heated dreams about them together sexually over the years but had quickly dismissed them out of hand. Yet, here he was with a hard on at the mere fact that House was staring at his cock like a hungry animal staring at a juicy steak, barely able to contain himself. House not only wanted him, but also cared about him. Did he care about him as much as Wilson cared about House? Did he love him, too?

House's lust-filled eyes met Wilson's; they had darkened to a smoky blue and were filled with desire and fear.

"You want me to go after it," House asked him deeply, seductively, "don't you?"

Wilson panted lightly, wanting to reach down and unbutton the front of his underwear, relieving the pressure on his throbbing cock. He wanted to touch himself….no, he wanted _House_ to touch him instead.

The older man was panting as well. "You want me to reach into your pants, don't you? Of course you do. I can see that you do, Wilson. It's written all over your face."

Wilson couldn't see himself but he imagined he looked just a horny as House did. He couldn't believe this was happening. He should be running away, but that was the last thing he wanted. Wilson wanted to get closer to House, not further away. The little het voice in his head kept telling him that this was sick and wrong, but his growing need was easily drowning it out.

House placed one long-fingered hand on the inside of Wilson's thigh and the oncologist hissed uncontrollably at the incredible sensations it created in him. The need was growing steadily higher as House place his other hand on the inside of Wilson's other thigh. Wilson closed his eyes for a moment. His cock was straining and twitching now, the button on his shorts gave way and its head popped out the opening as if reaching out to House, begging him for relief. As House's hands slowly slid across Wilson's perspiration-beaded skin, up towards his groin and the remote nestled next to Wilson's straining cock, he whispered, "I've wanted this for a long time; so have you, haven't you?"

The younger man nodded slightly, stammering, "Y-yes. Yes!" he swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to beg him to touch him already. Pre-cum was already leaking out of his slit.

House told him huskily, "Wilson, just let go. There's no point in fighting it any longer. Give yourself to me. You know you want to—just do it."

House's hands slid up and over Wilson's cock. A moan of sheer pleasure escaped Wilson's throat and he involuntarily bucked his pelvis up into the other's hands, wanting and needing more touch, more friction, and more delicious stimulation. The diagnostician slowly, torturously slid one of his hands under the waist band of his underwear and Wilson shuddered as the remote was slowly drawn out against his aching cock. He watched through hooded eyes as House set the remote aside, no longer having any interest in watching TV. His interest was drawn towards his best friend instead.

Wilson had the sudden and unexplainable urge to take House's rock-hard member into his mouth. It was an urge almost as strong as his need to be taken into House's mouth.

As if reading his thoughts, House grinned lustily and began to carefully lower Wilson's shorts.

"Lift," House murmured. Wilson lifted his hips high enough long enough for House to pull the underwear past his hips and then all of the way off, tossing them aside. He gently grasped Wilson's knees and separated them, moving in closer until he could reach Wilson's neck. The older man pulled him into a deep, hot, sloppy, hungry kiss. Wilson allowed himself to let go and just forget about everything but pleasuring and being pleasured by his friend.

Allowing House's insistent tongue access into his mouth, he savored the way House explored every square centimeter of him, tickling the top of his mouth, running the muscle along Wilson's teeth, under his tongue and then caressed the top and sides of his tongue—it was the most erotic kiss Wilson had ever experienced and then it was his turn to explore and caress House's mouth and tongue at length, pulling back only long enough to breathe before lunging in again for more. Wilson felt as much as heard the diagnostician moan into his mouth. And that alone drove Wilson crazy with lust. He began to run his hands all over House's shoulders and back and then moving them around his sides to reach his chest, running his fingers through the light patch of brown and grey hair, caressing everywhere, mapping and remembering the feel of every freckle, every birthmark, every scar. He then began to slide his hands down House's sides, causing the other man to shiver. Wilson began to caress House's lower abdomen until his finger touched the waistband of the older man's boxers.

Wilson drew back, panting for air, "Those _have_ to go."

House nodded and disentangled his hands from Wilson's hair to help him remove the offending underwear. They too were tossed carelessly aside. Wilson slid his hand down underneath House's scrotum, tickling and teasing the ultrasensitive skin there. House moaned loudly and released a couple of curses before attacking Wilson with his mouth where the neck meets the shoulder, first kissing and then licking before biting him hard enough to make Wilson wince in both pain and pleasure. House began to suck hard on the bite, leaving his mark as if signing his signature, making it clear that he had laid claim to the oncologist and he was now the diagnostician's own and no one else's. That only proceeded to fan the flame of Wilson's passion. Being claimed, possessed by his best friend was hotter that hot.

Wilson's hand continued to massage House's testicles gently, bringing small whines and moans from him. "Mmmm, Jimmy! Oh god, yes, yes, that feels so good!"

The oncologist smiled with satisfaction, proud of the fact that he was the one causing his normally stony, misanthropic companion to purr like a kitten.

"Let's switch places," Wilson breathed. He rose from the chair and helped House up and into it in his place. House watched him with wanton abandon and Wilson knelt in front of him and grabbed his aching member in his soft hands.

House hissed, bucking his hips up into his friend's hand.

"I've never done this before," Wilson gasped. "So you'll have to tell me what I'm doing right and wrong."

"Jimmy," House murmured, reaching out to comb his fingers through the other man's thick, dark hair. He gasped loudly as Wilson began by licking the underside of House's dick upwards slowly towards the head, tracing little circles and patterns with the tip of his tongue as he did. He thought that he wouldn't like the taste and smell of another man's cock, but he found himself pleasantly surprised, and the more he inhaled House's heady scent of musk and pre-cum he found himself becoming more and more excited himself. He was amazed at how much he was enjoying giving head and watching House wriggle and writhe in ecstasy, his face full of yearning, desire and lust—he was so beautiful! The diagnostician was coming undone, and he was the one causing it to happen!

"Mmm, House," Wilson said between licks, flicks and kisses, "You taste incredible! I never would have believed it."

"Take me in!" House half-commanded, half-begged. "Please suck me. Suck me!"

Wilson hesitated for only a moment before lowering his mouth over House's dick. He took him in as far as he could without gagging. The hardness, the heat radiating off of his cock and the silky smoothness of it against his tongue were the most amazing oral sensations Wilson had experienced so far. He closed his eyes and remembered back to some of the best blow jobs he'd ever received, and what had been done to drive him wild and set to work imitating it, mixing a combination of bobbing, taking House's length in and out while tightening his lips around the shaft to increase friction, and sucking, short little sucks interspersed with long hard ones, constantly watching House's reaction to what he was doing to know what was working for the older man and what wasn't. House for his part had been moaning almost non-stop except when he would keen out Wilson's first name and words of encouragement like, "Yes, oh yes! Uh…uh…oh, James, oh my god, James! More, oh more! Harder! Suck harder! Oh god, oh god, I can't, I can't….oh….oh! You fucking slut…that's amazing!"

The more House babbled the harder Wilson got, his cock aching now for release as he sensed the diagnostician was getting ever closer to the edge, nearly there, nearly!

House bucked hard into Wilson's mouth, wanting more, needing more and not knowing what he needed but definitely out of his mind in ecstasy until Wilson heard his best friend curse a stream of unintelligible epithets and dirty words; cum exploded from his penis into Wilson's mouth. The oncologist began to gag on it at first, uncertain about the taste and consistency. It was strong and bitter; Wilson wondered if that was normal. He forced himself to swallow as much of it as he could before removing his mouth and spitting the rest out. House was too overwhelmed by the intensity of his orgasm to notice. Wilson wiped his mouth on his arm and watched the diagnostician bask in his afterglow. The look of absolute contentment and debauchery on his face caused Wilson to forget the unpleasant taste of House's cum. Wilson reached up and kissed House hungrily on the mouth, sharing some of the man's own semen with him. House kissed back and broke into chuckle.

"For never…having done…that before," the diagnostician managed to say between his gasps for air, "you're fucking…amazing at it!"

"Natural talent," Wilson muttered, receiving further chuckling in response. He would have laughed as well but he was still desperate to be taken care of. He rubbed his cock against House's leg, moaning in delight at the pleasure brought about by the friction, but he needed more!

House hadn't forgotten about him, however.

"Up!" the older man told him. Wilson got off of his knees and stood to his full height. House rose from the chair, receiving a hand from his friend.

"Over behind the sofa," the diagnostician instructed, his hands running over Wilson's body, "Lean forward against it supporting yourself with your hands."

Wilson allowed himself to be guided into place by his best friend, willing to do anything at that point to get off. House reached over the back of the same sofa and dug around under the cushions. His hand emerged holding a tube of lubricant. Wilson didn't bother asking why that item had been there. Probably he and Cuddy had-_No!_ The oncologist told himself. _Don't even think about it!_ House was with _him_ right now.

He quickly caught on to House's intentions when he felt his warm, calloused finger begin to apply some of the lube around the oncologist's anus. Just being touched there sent a shiver through the younger man. He felt a little apprehensive—he'd heard that the first time one was fucked up the ass it was painful, but he'd also been told that if it was done gradually, gently and carefully, it could be the most incredibly pleasurable experience one could have.

"Relax," House told him quietly, running one of his hands up and down Wilson's side caress-soft while he pushed his body up against him and began to nibble on the younger man's neck and earlobe. "It's better if you relax. I want you to enjoy this completely. I promise to stop whenever you want me to, but trust me—you won't want me to!"

"I don't know how much longer I can wait!" Wilson heard himself whine pathetically.

"Just a little longer," House assured him as he began to slip a well lubricated finger into his opening, past the sphincter muscle, stretching it open, and then slid it all the way in. Wilson trembled slightly, but it wasn't unpleasant, especially because the entire time the older man continued to nuzzle and kiss him, first on one side of the neck, then the other; he didn't mind the scratchy nature of his scruff against tender skin. House whispered things into the oncologist's ears that he never dreamed would come from the diagnostician's mouth and certainly never to him. They were passionate, reassuring, loving words and phrases; although not once did he tell Wilson specifically that he loved him; he used the terms 'loved one' and 'beloved', words alone that Wilson never thought would cross Gregory House's lips. Of course, he'd never had the older man 'make love' to him before, either. Wilson stopped calling him House and began calling him 'Greg', which, apparently, the diagnostician loved to hear rolling off his lips. House pressed his pelvis into Wilson; the diagnostician was rock-hard again. _Not bad for a man of his age_, Wilson noted.

Gradually House stretched Wilson's opening wider by adding more fingers one at a time. A couple of times Wilson hissed in discomfort and House froze, waiting for Wilson to tell him either to go on or to stop. It was always the same answer: a desperate plea to continue, to hurry.

In a few seconds he felt him remove his fingers and press his swollen cock against his opening instead. The younger man gasped and then moaned in anticipation. Without warning, House quickly thrust into him, staying shallow at first. Wilson made a small cry of pain and House froze again.

"James?" he whispered, blowing hot, moist air into the oncologist's ear before kissing it gently.

"K-Keep going, Greg," Wilson moaned. "Don't stop!"

House grinned against his skin and then began to thrust slowly, going a little deeper each time. The discomfort was temporary and was soon replaced with pleasurable sensations and a need in Wilson for his best friend to go deeper, which he gasped out and House obliged. Wilson reached down with one hand and grabbed his own cock; he began to stroke his length at the same time. He felt one of House's hands slide past his side and push his hand out of the way, beginning to stroke it for him while the other arm wrapped across Wilson's chest to hold him steady and in place for the thrusts.

"My job," House told him, leaning his forehead against the back of Wilson's head. The oncologist could hear the other man begin to breathe heavily, his throat catching from time to time as his own arousal and enjoyment began to take over him as well. Knowing House was enjoying it as much as Wilson was made the younger man even more excited. When House thrusted deeper he hit his best friend's prostate and caused the recipient to go crazy with gratification. Wilson began to back up hard against House's thrusts, moaning loudly now with each thrust while nearly coming out of his skin with the way the older man was pumping his cock.

Wilson couldn't say anything intelligent, could barely form words at all. All he could do was vocalize unintelligible babbles, grunts and groans that seemed to blend like music with the noises coming from House. Wilson knew he was only a couple of thrusts away from cumming, and from the speed and strength of House's pumping he knew that his friend was close as well.

"Give it to me Jimmy!" House growled into his ear, his voice an octave lower than usual and on edge. "Cum for me!"

"Oh god!" Wilson squealed. "Oh Greg! Ahhhh!" He keened as he came, shooting hot, sticky semen all over House's hand and the back of the sofa, who continued to pump him until every bit of it was out. Two more thrusts into him and House came as well, ejaculating into the oncologist and filling him up and overflowing with his seed.

As they rode out their orgasms, House held Wilson close, resting his head on the younger man's shoulder and using him to balance almost all of his weight off of his bad leg and onto his good. Wilson's head had dropped to his chest and he was giggling softly with tears running down his face. He only giggled when he was impacted both body and heart. It hadn't just been the most phenomenal sex he'd ever experienced but throughout he had known that the one with him was making love to him, not just fucking him. He had never-not even with his ex-wives or even Amber- felt as close to someone as he did right now with his best friend.

House's breathing was beginning to slow down but his hold on him never weakened.

"You better not be laughing at me," House told him, but the oncologist could hear the amused lilt to his voice that told him that the older man was not offended in any way.

"God, no!" Wilson assured him eagerly.

House had already withdrawn his softened member from the younger man's body. He turned Wilson around to look at him. They stared into each other's eyes, hiding nothing. House looked at him with eyes that said 'I love you' even if his mouth never would.

"I bet Sam has never satisfied you like that," the diagnostician said smugly, smirking.

"Not even close," Wilson said in agreement, and wrapped his arms around the other man. "I don't even want to think about her right now."

House smiled with approval and leaned in to kiss him.

They cleaned up the sofa and floor; following that they took a shower together, exploring each other further and when they were done they found House's bed again. They lay beneath a sheet and blanket, still nude, wrapped up in each other. Wilson was amused at how much of a cuddler the diagnostician was; in fact, House the lover was different in many ways from House the grouchy friend and general misanthrope. He was gentler, softer and more indulgent. He physically clung to Wilson almost as if he was afraid that if he let go of him, the younger man would run away.

He had no intention of running away.

It was then that Wilson acknowledged just how much _in_ love he was with his friend of twenty years. Everything was making much more sense now. He understood now why none of his marriages had worked, why he had always put House's needs ahead of his wives. He could see where House's jealousy and possessiveness sprang from. He and Sam never would have worked out even if she hadn't started lying and told his friend to relapse rather than giving him the phone. Wilson hadn't been consciously aware of it at the time, but none of the women in his life could ever compare to House.

They dozed for a while and then Wilson murmured, "Did you mean it—what you said about Cuddy being a sorry surrogate for me because you believed I would never return your feelings?"

"MmmHmm," House confirmed sleepily, stroking Wilson's hair.

"Will you talk to me now about what's been going on with you?" the younger man asked next.

House sighed but smiled. "I guess so—I mean, you did give great head so I suppose I owe you something for that."

Wilson chuckled into the crook of House's neck.

House sobered and became pensive. Wilson squeezed him tighter and patiently waited; he knew the diagnostician would begin when he was ready and pushing him any further now would cause him to withdraw.

He began by relating again to his best friend and new lover about his few weeks after moving out of the loft and the day of the crane disaster. Wilson listened in silence, sometimes feeling guilt and other moments compassion for his friend, particularly when he related the part about Alvie leaving to go to live with his cousin in Arizona, his storming out of Nolan's office after a frustrating session and the feeling of worthlessness and abandonment when, at the disaster sight, Cuddy had laid into him angrily, telling him that he was stuck and that both she and Wilson were moving on their lives without him. That enraged the oncologist, who resented her ignorantly speaking for him; he had never intended on forsaking his friendship with House. He'd been a jerk in some ways, to be sure, but Wilson had always included House in his vision for the future. House kissed the top of his head upon hearing that.

Wilson was nearly brought to tears when he heard about what had happened with Hannah, the woman who had been trapped underground whose leg had been crushed and which House had tried valiantly to save but in the end had had to amputate it in an effort to save her life. The older man's voice cracked as he talked about her dying from the fat embolism anyway, and how useless and worthless the diagnostician had felt after it. He related how Foreman had tried to comfort him only to be lashed out at and how he'd returned to his apartment, uncovered his stash of Vicodin and had considered taking it when Cuddy arrived, taking him by surprise.

"I was hoping…." House let his words trail off and he shook his head.

"Hoping what?" Wilson asked. "Tell me."

The other man exhaled loudly through his nose. "I was hoping that it would be _you_ coming to check up on me."

Wilson took that in for a moment, allowing himself to feel the guilt that came. He deserved to feel it. It should have been him. Instead he went home and ended up having to massage Sam's bony feet as she watched American Idol and munched loudly on carrot sticks.

"I'm-." Wilson began to say but House shook his head.

"Don't say it," House told him sternly. "There was no reason for it to be you. You'd spent the entire day patching together the people we sent your way. Of course the only thing you wanted to do after that was to go home and crash."

"It doesn't matter," Wilson told him. "Just before I left the hospital I saw Foreman. He told me a very brief description of what had happened—I should have known how hard it would have hit you. I was only thinking of myself."

"So was I," the older man told him quietly. "Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?"

"Yes." Wilson squeezed his lips shut and remained quiet. He felt House's arms tighten just a little around him.

House closed his eyes as he recounted that night. "I went home and headed straight to the bathroom where I tore the mirror off of the wall and smashed it to pieces in the bathtub. After the Tritter ordeal I had carved a small hole out of the wall plaster behind the mirror and stashed away two bottles of Vicodin, an emergency stash in case I ever needed it. I didn't get rid of them when I was released from Mayfield. I don't know why not—maybe it was my idea of a back door to escape through should the front door become impassible. Anyway, I grabbed them and sat on the floor. I felt like I had nothing and no one left to stay sober for so I poured two tablets into my hand and just sat there with them, trying to decide whether to take them or throw them away.

"That's when Cuddy came in—she was the last person I expected to see. Don't get me wrong—I was happy to see her in spite of what she'd said to me earlier that day. Hell, I would have been glad to see _Taub_ standing there at that point, just to know that I wasn't alone….I asked her if she was going to leap across the room to take the Vicodin away from me and she said no. So I demanded to know why she'd come. She told me that she'd broken up with Lucas, that as much as she _didn't want_ to be and in spite of how hard _she had tried not_ to be, she was, in fact, in love with me. She asked me if I thought we could work. I asked her if she thought I could fix myself. We didn't have an answer for either question. I just knew that it was either try, or end up alone and on drugs again. I wanted _you_…but I knew that wasn't going to happen so I decided she was better than nothing." House shook his head and chuckled ruefully. "What a fucking way to start a relationship—but it worked, at first. We had that honeymoon period that pop-psychologists blabber on about on TV where the sex was several times a day and damned good, where we got along well because we were too busy fucking to evaluate anything. She overlooked my bad habits and frustrating personality quirks—don't say anything, Jimmy!—and I overlooked her neurotic need to be in charge and in control of everyone and everything in her life. I even got up at night a couple of times to take care of her screaming brat so she could sleep. I was usually unable to sleep anyway. Lisa never seemed to appreciate it, though. She never said thank you—in fact, she never said it, but I almost felt like she expected it, like it was a hoop I had to jump through if I wanted to be with her.

"What the hell, I figured. I'd known all too well that she wanted a responsible, caring, dependable man to help her raise the little pooper. I should have known she'd expect me to act like one. I tried, I really did. But it was never enough. I spent nearly every night over at her place because she said she was uncomfortable in my apartment and she'd have to deal with Rachel in a strange environment. I figured that she had a point, so I didn't argue it—but when I suggested that I move in with her, she resisted that. She said she wanted to take things slowly. I knew it was because she wasn't certain that we were going to last so she didn't want to make any kind of commitments. Hell, she was right…but I really tried to make it work."

"So what happened last night?" Wilson asked him, watching the diagnostician's face fondly. Here was the real Gregory House, the one behind the walls and porcupine quills that was capable of love and gentleness and commitment. Wilson had felt privileged many times in the past to be his friend, but never more so than now.

House kissed Wilson's forehead again. "She didn't want anyone to know about us, and when I say anyone, I mean _anyone_. She wanted me to be up and out of the house before the nanny arrived in the mornings, and she wanted me to park my bike a block and a half away so no one she knew would pass by and see it there and find out about us. At first I thought it was strange and annoying, but not all that unreasonable. After the first month of sneaking around and hiding at her place and at work, I was sick of it and told her that I wanted to come out about our relationship. She nixed the idea right away, citing reasons like she needed time to tell her family because they all had liked Lucas so much and might not be happy about her seeing me, she didn't want anyone at the hospital to know because of gossip and accusations of favoritism and impropriety—she is my boss, she was fond of reminding me. I told her that I didn't give a flying fuck what others thought or said about us, but then she got angry and suggested that we weren't going to work, so like a whipped dog I gave in to her. She would go out to fundraisers and sponsor dinners and leave me home to babysit. In fact, she made it clear that either I rush to her place every evening to relieve the nanny—as her friend not her lover, of course—or I was proving that I wasn't really serious about our relationship.

"Last night she said she had a business dinner with an FDA agent, got dressed to the nines and told me that she would be back around ten. I decided I was tired of being left behind, so I found a babysitter and went to the restaurant she was meeting the agent at only to find her sitting with Lucas."

"_What_?" Wilson reacted in surprise. "Did she explain why?"

"Not exactly," House said, his voice becoming no louder than a whisper. "I saw them but they didn't see me. I managed to get close enough to listen in without them noticing. She was telling him that she'd made a mistake with me and was asking him for his advice on what to do. That was the verbal message. The non-verbal language she used said that she wanted to give their relationship another try. I didn't stick around long enough to hear what he said—it didn't matter what the fuck he said or did. It was what Lisa had said that mattered. I went to the liquor store, loaded up on the bourbon and went to my apartment where I called up an old acquaintance for the Oxy. I faintly remember calling you now, but I don't remember our conversation." House paused a moment before adding, "I'm a failure."

"_She's_ the failure!" Wilson told him adamantly. "She didn't give you a fair chance; I doubt she even intended for your relationship to be permanent. She manipulated you to do her bidding by dangling the possibility of ending your relationship in front of you! The gall of the woman! She's the one who doesn't deserve you, Greg—not the other way around."

"You're not objective," House told him, smirking. "You're in love with me."

"You're right," the oncologist agreed, serious for a moment. There, it was in the open, admitted to. He'd burned that bridge and was glad that he had. "Quite frankly I'm glad she treated you badly. Her loss is my gain."

"You mean that, don't you?" House asked him, receiving a nod in reply. "Where do you see this going?"

Wilson thought about that for a moment. What he saw as his future a couple of hours earlier was light-years away from where he saw it going now. He didn't know what House was expecting to hear him say or, more importantly, what he wanted him to say. So he said the first thing that came to him.

"I want us to be more than just 'friends with benefits'. Our friendship could never survive that, and the last thing I want is to lose that. I've finally given up all pretense of not loving you, so now that I've finally figured it out, I want to spend my future with you…like this. Jesus, I sound like a character on one of those soap operas you like to watch!"

"So you're saying no to the fuck-buddies thing, then?" House clarified, trying to hide his grin but failing. "You want an actual relationship."

"Yes, and don't ever use the term 'fuck-buddies' to describe us again," Wilson told him with a frown of distaste.

"And you're not afraid of being seen in public with me and risking being mocked for being in a gay relationship?" House asked him, and Wilson felt the older man tense a little. He knew that the diagnostician needed to be reassured that Wilson wasn't ashamed of him like Cuddy seemed to be.

"Greg, half of the hospital and the people in the condo complex already think we're gay," the oncologist told him. "Besides, I've never really been afraid to be known as your friend. You've embarrassed me on several occasions, sure—but only temporarily. I don't care who knows it. Okay, there _is_ one person I don't want to know about us."

"Your father?" the older man guessed.

"Nope," Wilson answered, smiling crookedly. "Nora."

House looked at him quizzically. "Why Nora?"

"If she finds out she was right about us after all, we'll have to suffer with her smug attitude for as long as we live there." Wilson told him seriously.

"_We_?" House echoed.

"Well, yeah," was his answer, feeling a little apprehensive. "Unless you think that's moving too fast or you're having doubts…."

"I have no doubts," House told him sincerely. "I've wanted this for a long time. I just want you to be certain that you don't have any."

Wilson placed his hand on the diagnostician's cheek and turned his head towards him. He kissed him, lingering before answering. "I should never have asked you to leave in the first place."

"And you promise to tell me when you're getting sick of me rather than finding some nurse to drive the point home?" The older man looked at him with serious blue eyes. "Because I can forgive a lot, but not being lied to and humiliated like that."

"I promise," Wilson told him, reminding himself that he had no right to resent the question. His past history of infidelity made it a valid one to be asked.

House smiled indulgently at him. "One more thing."

Rolling his eyes, the younger man sighed and asked, "What is it?"

"You come with me tomorrow while I give Cuddy the good news."

Wilson chuckled at that. "It will be my pleasure."

~*fin*~


End file.
